


The Reluctant Beauty and His Anxious Beast

by LittleBird20



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3575736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBird20/pseuds/LittleBird20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers doesn't know what he wants out of life. So he ends up at a bar making out with the boyfriend of Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reluctant Beauty and His Anxious Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my fiancee who encouraged me to post this. I love her.

The Reluctant Beauty and his Anxious Beast

Steven Grant Rogers was not what most would call beautiful. To start with, he was a man and he preferred to be called handsome, if anything. But people seldom called him that. He was short and skinny, never seemed to gain weight no matter how hard he tried. He hated the way his cheeks were constantly stained with blush from his coughing fits. His chest was narrow and when paired with his knobby knees and elbows, he could never quite outgrow the appearance of eleven. Even though he was eighteen and knew how to swish his hips in the bars to make the fairies take notice. Never mind that he was always too afraid to try anything, using his small stature to his advantage to sneak out the back door and skulk through alleys on his way home. 

Steve knew it made his mother worried. The way he would disappear at odd hours of the night, come home way too late. She stayed up waiting for him. And the guilt he felt when he came home to find her wrapped in her quilt on the living room couch was almost enough to make him stop going out. Almost. But even though his stomach clenched as he kissed her forehead and walked her back to bed, even though he laid awake far past when he would’ve usually passed out listening to her pray for her “lost boy” he couldn’t bring himself to stay home. 

Their apartment was small, but so was every apartment in the tiny Irish neighborhood in Brooklyn. That wasn’t what bothered Steve. What bothered him was the way he felt suffocated in that smallness. He and his mother, Sarah Rogers, had lived in the same four rooms for his entire life. He had been born here, and sometimes Steve supposed he would die here. It was times like that, when those thoughts crept up on him and refused to let him go, that Steve found his escape in the bars. 

It hadn’t been hard to figure out he was queer. Dames just didn’t do it for him. Sure, he had tried going dancing. He and the lads from seminary school used to go out on Friday nights after lecture. They loosened their ties, rolled up their shirt sleeves, and exchanged their legal pads for barely legal gals. But all that ballroom stuff just wasn’t Steve’s strong suit. He seemed to have two left feet when he was out there on the floor, and never mind his asthma. He could barely twirl them around once before having to stop to catch his breath. For some reason, the dames didn’t seem to like that. 

He wasn’t the type of guy girls brought home to their mothers. He was the type of guy they coddled and cooed over. The lipstick marks on his cheeks were never ones of passion. 

After a while, he stopped going out with the guys. They questioned him a couple times, but never poked at his lame excuses about taking care of his Ma, finishing a paper, or that his sister was in town. Eventually they stopped asking him along and he stopped hanging out with them all together. Sarah sighed over him when she found him on the couch Friday nights. Even though she hated his late nights, she worried even more that he was missing out. 

“Why don’t your friends from school ever come around anymore?” she asked one evening in late March. Steve shrugged from his place on the couch where he was working on a drawing of the Art Institute. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the windows right. He scowled as he once again erased the entire second story. 

Sarah came over and kissed him on the forehead, trying to smooth away the lines of worry that appeared above the bridge of his nose whenever he concentrated too hard. He smiled up at her and shrugged. “They’re busy.” She sighed and sat down next to him on the couch, smoothing her hand over his hair. “Well, when they get un-busy, you tell them they’re welcome here anytime.” 

“I’ll be sure to do that, Ma,” he said, moving his hair out of her reach. She smiled down at him as she got up to move back into the kitchen. “That’s my boy.” 

Later that night, even though his hands shook, he slid open his bedroom window and crept out onto the fire escape. No matter how quiet he tried to be, he knew his Mum would be waiting up for him when he got home. She had a sixth sense about these things, it seemed. But he had to leave, he had to escape her expectations, he had to escape the creeping sense of dread that this life was all he was going to have. 

The bar under the hotel was hopping when he arrived, the party in full swing. New drafts were coming out every day and those remaining wanted to live it up while they could. He went up to the counter but merely ordered a coke. It was the one compromise he could make with himself, the one way he knew would make his mother worry less. He had nursed a beer occasionally, but the stuff was vile and he tried to avoid it. He stuck to soda and even though she tried to hide it, he knew Sarah smelled his breath when he came home late. So he nursed a coke instead and watched the dance floor, knowing he wasn’t quite brave enough to join in on his own. 

He caught the eye of a fairy about half an hour after he arrived. Steve blushed, as he was wont to do whenever anyone paid even the slightest bit of attention to him. The other man beckoned to him, trying to coax him out on the floor. Steve smiled, but shook his head. He might know how to shake his hips and grind against someone, but he wasn’t about to do that sober. The fairy pursed his red, red lips and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Steve chuckled and hid a smile behind his hand, trying to be coy. 

It must’ve worked because the next thing he knew, there was a warm hand on his shoulder and a silky smooth voice whispering in his ear. “Hey, doll, can I buy you a drink?” Steve swiveled around on the bar stool and placed his hands on the lapels of the other man, pulling him close for a kiss that was all tongue and a little teeth. There went his bout of bravery for the night. When he pulled back, he felt a new blush burning its way across his cheeks and knew by the way his eyelashes were fluttering from the sensation of the kiss that he looked just like the doll he’d been accused of being. 

“Well, hello to you,” the fairy drawled, wiping the remains of his lipstick off his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t even know your name, stranger.” 

Steve took a deep breath, trying to force enough air into his lungs so as not to have a coughing fit. “Rogers,” he replied, still more shrill than he would’ve liked. 

“Rogers,” the other man repeated, rolling the name around in his mouth in a way that made even Steve’s ears turn red. “I’m Gene.” 

“Gene,” Steve tried the same trick the other man had, trying to make the name sound seductive. It must’ve worked – at least a little – because before he knew it, Gene was pulling him back in for another kiss. And Steve wasn’t the only one breathless when they broke apart this time. 

“So how ‘bout that drink?” Gene’s eyes were sparkling with mischief. “I figured you might need a little encouragement to get up on that dance floor with me.” 

Steve smiled in spite of himself. “No, thank you,” he politely declined, throwing in a wink to make sure Gene knew he wasn’t turning down everything. Just the drink. “I’m not much of a drinking man, myself.” Gene pouted a little but the way his hand curled its way around Steve’s waist proved he wasn’t too upset. “Well, then, how ‘bout you and I get out of here?” he suggested. 

This was the part where Steve always froze. The part where he stammered some excuse and made his escape, ducking out the kitchen door and kicking pebbles in the alley on the way home, cursing himself for chickening out once again. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with someone. But as much as knew he preferred men, as much as he wanted to go home with this fairy named Gene who kissed like he meant it and looked like he wanted to devour Steve whole, he had no knowledge of how to go about acting on those desires. He was too stuck in his head to be practical. 

He supposed his Christian upbringing didn’t help either. The Church wasn’t too fond of his inclinations that much he knew. He hadn’t been to Confession in years for that very reason. Ever since he realized he couldn’t bring himself to like dames, he avoided church like the plague. He knew that concerned his mother as well, but it was one thing he let slide. One thing that he couldn’t bring himself to argue about, not even on Christmas. 

Sarah would stand at the door each Sunday, dressed in all her finery, and stare daggers at the back of his head as he curled up under a blanket on the couch. He refused to look in her direction, knew she would start crying if he did. Eventually, she would sigh and leave, perhaps closing the door a little more forcefully than necessary. As soon as she did that, Steve would get up and pace. He always felt the guilt more on Sundays than any other day of the week. During his pacing, he prayed the rosary. He used his mother’s, the one brought over from the old country, the one she received from Steve’s father. It smelled of her perfume and made Steve feel small again, like a child who curled up on her lap and listened to her stories. It made him feel good. 

Of course, he never admitted this to his Ma. Not even in his weakest moments when he felt all of his failures pressing down on him, when he felt as if he really was going to die in these same four rooms and never be able to see any of the world. He would just curl up next to her on the couch, let her stroke his hair, and promise to do better. To her credit, Sarah never got mad at him. Sometimes, Steve even swore she knew about his inclinations. Like the time, about three Sundays ago, when she was trying once again to convince him to accompany her to church. “You know, Stevie,” she began. Smiling at the way his face twisted at the nickname she continued, “God loves you. He loves all his creatures, no matter what. And if you can’t believe that, you have no business believing in God.” She had slammed the door outright that Sunday, but she had also given Steve something to think about. Sarah’s rosary lay forgotten on the table as he paced that morning, instead choosing to mull over the potential reality of a God that could still love him. 

Gene was looking at him expectantly. And with all those thoughts of love and God and whether or not he was disappointing his mother forever by doing this swirling around his mind, Steve decides to finally throw caution to the winds and see what happens when he says, “Yes, I think that could be arranged.” Gene grins wide and keeps a hand pinned to Steve’s hip as he leads the two of them out the side door and into the alley. It’s raining lightly, a fine mist that soaks them within minutes. Steve shivers and is rewarded by being pulled closer to Gene’s side, warm hands digging into the soft flesh under his ribs. 

Even though he knows he shouldn’t, that this is supposed to be an exercise in letting go, Steve starts overthinking things the minute their feet hit the pavement. He doesn’t know where Gene lives, but there’s no way in hell he’s taking him back to his mother’s place. His brain starts going a mile a minute and before he can start having an honest-to-goodness panic attack, he does the only thing he can think of. 

He stops and grabs Gene’s hand, who looks momentarily confused before being backed into the alley wall by Steve. And then for sure he’s not complaining. Steve mashes their mouths together with more hunger than technique, and Gene pulls him close, running a long-fingered hand down his spine which makes Steve shiver in an unfamiliar way that’s not necessarily unpleasant. He gasps when Gene’s fingers wander down to his ass which only gives the other man access to his mouth and Gene gladly takes that for granted, swirling his tongue around Steve’s and making him moan into Gene’s mouth. He tugs on Gene’s lower lip and is rewarded with a moan of his own. He’s starting to think that he may just be getting the hang of this, when Gene grabs his hips and pulls him close. He can’t help the half gasp/half whine that escapes him when he’s pressed this close to the other man. This is the furthest he’s even been with someone and he starts to panic, just a little. But Gene’s not about to give him room to breathe and instead pulls Steve back for another kiss, moving away after a moment to scrape his teeth against Steve’s jaw and along his pulse. All thoughts fly away from Steve’s mind as soon as he does so. 

Steve and Gene are so wrapped up in each other and what they are trying to accomplish in the dirty and rain splattered alley that they pay no heed to the door from the bar opening, spilling out light and warmth. There’s no need to hide from anyone in there, each patron is just as queer as the next. However, neither of them expected whoever came of out of the bar to walk over to them and interrupt with a tap on Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve had just started moving his hips against Gene’s in a more insistent manner when he felt someone tap him on the left shoulder. He pulled his face away from Gene’s and stepped back to greet whoever it was. And perhaps tell them off for interrupting what was shaping up to be the best night of his life. He opened his mouth to tell the other man off, but stopped when he saw his expression. He was pissed, that was plain to see, his eyebrows pulled into an angry V underneath a crop of messy brown hair. He was also far larger than Steve, outweighing him by a good fifty pounds at least. Steve immediately shut his mouth again. 

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing Gene?” the man asked, his voice gravelly with suppressed anger. Gene smiled a slow, drunk smile. “Calm down, Bucky, it’s all good. I’m just showing this here doll a good time.” Steve bristled at being called a doll for the second time that night and stepped away from the hand Gene was trying to place on his shoulder. 

Bucky did not look mollified. “Gene. What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he repeated. Obviously he was searching for a better answer. Steve tried to slip away in the shadows to avoid what was obviously a lover’s quarrel but Bucky reached out a hand and grabbed the front of his shirt where it had come unbuttoned. Funnily enough, he didn’t remember if he had done that or if Gene had and he was suddenly embarrassed. “Oh no, you don’t, doll,” Bucky said, the sarcastic emphasis he placed on the endearment hurt more than the way his fingernails scraped Steve’s skin. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing with Gene here?” 

Steve opened his mouth, all ready to fire back a clever comeback, but all that came out was a squeaky breath as his asthma finally caught up with him. He bent over, trying to stop the coughing fit before it got really bad, but the damp air did his lungs no favors. He was hacking and he was sure both Bucky and Gene were staring at him in horror which made his ears burn. He tried to stand up straight to walk away and deal with this by himself but even that simple task proved impossible right now. “Gene,” he heard the man called Bucky say in a low voice. “Run inside and get him a glass of water.” He heard movement that he assumed was Gene following his instructions though he was too busy trying not to hack up a lung to check. The few minutes that Steve and Bucky passed alone in the alley would have been painful under normal circumstances. As it was, Steve got his breathing under control enough to lean against the wall and merely wheeze. There was no chance of him telling anyone off anytime soon, though. 

Gene soon reappeared with the glass of water which he handed to Bucky for some reason instead of Steve. Bucky came closer to Steve warily, as if afraid he might try and flee again. “Drink this,” he said in a tone of voice that left no room for arguing. When he handed over the glass their fingers brushed and it sent a jolt of electricity all the way down to Steve’s stomach. He gulped the water down gratefully, and took a deep breath trying to steady both his breathing and his nerves. He still felt shaky, but luckily he was no longer in danger of passing out. Bucky took the glass back and handed it off to Gene who was still drunk enough that the seriousness of the situation hadn’t quite hit him yet. 

“Care to answer my question now, punk?” The surly mannerisms were back now that Bucky seemed sure Steve wasn’t going to keel over in front of his eyes. Steve bit his lip, unsure of what to say now that he had been helped by a complete stranger. A complete stranger whose boyfriend he had apparently been trying to dry hump in an alley. God. That was an embarrassment he’d never live down, even if it was just to himself. 

“Why don’t you ask Gene there why he wasn’t more clear about having a boyfriend?” Steve fired back. Something in the way Bucky’s eyes kept dropping down to his mouth put him on the defensive. He wasn’t about to get taken advantage of twice in one night. He might be small, but he could use his righteous anger for good when necessary. 

To his surprise, Bucky did in fact turn to Gene who was leaning against the wall on the other side of Steve, staring at the stars and blinking as rain fell in his eyes. “Gene?” Bucky asked, snapping his fingers in front of Gene’s eyes. Gene blinked slowly and seemed to focus on his boyfriend’s face. He grinned. “Hey there, Buck,” he said. “How’s it going?” 

Steve had to fight the urge to laugh. He hadn’t realized it with all the excitement, but Gene was in fact very drunk. Bucky sighed. “Let’s go home,” he said. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.” Steve took this as his chance to escape. He pushed off from the wall and started heading down the alley. He stopped almost at the entrance to the street when he heard someone whistle after him. He turned back to see Bucky, with Gene’s arm slung over his shoulder. “What’s your name?” he called. 

“Steve Rogers,” he replied. Bucky nodded as if committing this to memory. “Well, Steve, I suppose I’ll see you around,” he said as he turned away. Something about this goodbye bothered Steve. “Wait a minute,” he walked back down the alley to where the two men were standing. “You’re not mad at me? Even after I basically fucked your boyfriend into the alley wall?” Bucky sighed and ran his hand through his hair, further ruffling it. He now looked like a mad scientist with the way the brown curls stuck up in every direction. But he didn’t seem mad. In fact, if anything, he seemed sad. And tired. Steve’s heart clenched for a minute before he reminded himself that he barely knew this guy. They were total strangers. He shouldn’t be feeling sympathy for someone he just met. 

“I’m not mad at you Steve. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m not surprised. This isn’t the first time he’s done this.” Steve was startled at this confession and the way Bucky’s eyes widened almost infinitesimally showed he was as well. “I should go now. Get him to bed.” Gene looked like he was almost asleep on his feet. “Yeah,” Steve said. “I’ll see you,” he called over his shoulder as he turned to go. It was harder to make himself leave the second time. It was not so much about escape now, he felt like he had glimpsed a slice of Bucky’s life that the other man didn’t often show to others. 

He had almost made it to the street once again when he heard the whistle and walked back down. Bucky opened his mouth and shut it again, ran his hand through his hair. Steve wondered why he was so nervous. It was making him nervous. “Look,” Bucky finally spit out. “I know I just met you and all, but you seem like a decent guy.” Steve snorted a laugh and Bucky cracked a smile. “But do you wanna job?” Steve blinked a few times, trying to make sense of that sentence. 

“What?” he asked, drawing a blank. Bucky sighed. “Never mind, that was a really off-the-wall offer. Forget it.” He turned to walk away, Gene hanging complacently at his side. Steve caught his arm as he moved to leave. There was that spark of electricity again as their skin brushed. They immediately moved a step apart from each other. “I recently had some guys leave over at the docks. We could use a few more bodies moving boxes and I told my boss I’d keep an eye out for anyone who looked like they wanted to make a few extra bucks. He’s gonna be real peeved at me tomorrow when I show up empty handed. I don’t relish the thought of taking on that extra work by myself. Even with this lug here to help,” he gestured at Gene’s head lolling on his shoulder. Even with this more lengthy explanation, Steve sensed there was still something Bucky wasn’t telling him. 

But the lure of extra money was hard to pass up. He and his Ma did alright, but this way, maybe he could prove to her that he had something going for him. That maybe all his late nights had actually paid off. “I’ll take it,” Steve said, having to speak a little louder to catch Bucky’s attention as he was already walking away down the alley. Bucky and Gene stopped and turned back around. Bucky smiled for the first time all evening and it made Steve catch his breath for a moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” he replied. 

“Tomorrow,” Steve whispered, mostly to himself. He finally made it onto the street and headed towards home. As predicted, Sarah was waiting up for him when he arrived, her blanket tucked around her as she sat on the fading upholstery of the couch. He kissed her forehead as she smiled that sad smile at him. “Oh, Stevie, what are you doing home so late?” 

“It’s alright, Ma,” he replied. And for the first time he actually believed it. 

The next morning, he woke up feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks. He had fallen asleep quickly last night, though a man with dark brown curls and even darker eyes had haunted his dreams. He shook off the last holdings of sleep and went to the kitchen where Sarah had already started breakfast. She seemed surprised to see her son. “What are ya doing up so early, Stevie?” He smiled at her as he sat down at the table with a bowl of cereal. 

“I got a new job,” he informed her around a mouthful of Cheerios. Sarah Rogers stared at him openmouthed for a moment. “It’s down at the docks moving boxes. It doesn’t pay much, but I figure it could help.” 

He let out a yelp when his mother suddenly descended on him and covered his hair in kisses. “Ah, Ma, come on!” he groaned. “I’m just proud of you,” she said. 

He smiled at her as he got up to rinse out his bowl. Sarah had sat down with her eggs and the paper. She peered over the top of it at him as he left to get dressed. “Maybe we could even put some of that extra money towards art classes, you never know,” she remarked in almost an offhand way. But Steve could tell she was trying to hide her wide smile behind the paper. He couldn’t help the way his heart leapt at her words and he tried to hide his own smile as he walked down the hallway. “Maybe,” he called. “Maybe.” 

Steve left far earlier than he probably needed to, in order to make sure he didn’t get lost. He headed towards the sea, following the smell of salt air and the cry of the gulls. He arrived a few minutes before eight and stood around, feeling a familiar awkward feeling creeping over him. He was just trying to convince himself not to blush and complete the picture of a lost seminary boy, when he heard a familiar whistle. 

 

Bucky was walking towards him, conspicuously missing a drunk Gene hanging off his arm this time. “Hey Steve,” he greeted as he came close enough to be heard. “Glad you showed up. Hopefully this will get my boss to stop riding me.” The phrasing was common enough, but something in the way he said it while shielding his eyes from the sun to look at Steve caused Steve’s stomach muscles to clench unexpectedly. He licked his suddenly dry lips. “Hey, it’s no problem. You’re the one helping me out here. Extra money would sure come in handy for me and my Ma.” 

“What about your dad?” Bucky questioned as he moved over to sit next to Steve on the curb. Even though they weren’t sitting that close, Steve could still feel the heat from Bucky’s body. It made him have to work to fight down another blush. “He’s not in the picture, died before I was born,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. This didn’t bother him anymore. All he knew of his Dad was the stories Sarah told sometimes when she clutched her rosary close and stared off into the distance like she was seeing into the past. “I’m sorry,” Bucky said and he sounded like he meant it. Odd. Steve wasn’t used to sympathy from strangers. Or for strangers either, he thought, as he recalled the moment last night when Bucky had seemed so sad. 

“It’s alright,” Steve said. “Doesn’t bother me much.” There was silence for a beat. Steve didn’t know how to fill it, but luckily he was saved the embarrassment he would’ve surely caused himself by the arrival of Gene. He looked a little worse for wear, squinting in the bright morning sun and sporting the same button down as last night, beer stains and all. “Morning Gene!” Bucky called, waving him over to the spot he was sitting. Gene grunted as he took a spot on the curb as well. “Wouldn’t call it a good one, Barnes,” he muttered under his breath. Bucky tousled his hair playfully and laughed. Steve watched this exchange warily, but gathered the two must have made up sometime between last night’s drunken almost brawl and right now. 

Bucky stood up and looked down at the other two. Gene was still groaning softly. “Well, Rogers,” he said. “Ready to start your first day?” 

“Lead the way Barnes,” Steve replied, standing up and trying to ignore the way his stomach did flips as Bucky said his last name. 

The three walked into the entrance of the docks and immediately ran into the hustle and bustle that was the shipping quarter. After a hurried introduction to Bucky and Gene’s boss – a heavyset German man named Karl who had an inclination to yell even when he wasn’t angry – the three of them were thrown into work. There was never a quiet moment at the docks. Gene and Bucky already knew what they were doing and headed over to where large cranes were dangling boxes over a conveyor belt. As Steve watched from near the main office, the two settled in a rhythm that spoke of many weeks performing the same menial tasks. Gene would reach up and unhook the crates from the ceiling, handing them down to Bucky who made sure the lids were tightly hammered on before sending them down the line. It was almost magic, the way they moved in tandem to each other. Steve knew without even trying that he wouldn’t be able to do that. He didn’t have the muscle tone. He ears starting burning while he stood there, feeling useless and he began to question why he even took this job in the first place. He glanced over at Gene and Bucky again and had to admit the view wasn’t half bad. He averted his eyes before someone could catch him sending longing glances over the lines of Bucky’s arms as he hammered the crates shut. No use getting into a fight here. Or getting fired on his first day. 

Karl didn’t seem to think he was useless, however. He clapped Steve on the shoulder hard enough to almost make the smaller man stumble under the weight. “I think we have a spot for you over here,” he says as he leads Steve over to stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes. “You can be one of my loading boys until we get some meat on those bones.” He squeezes Steve’s arm in one hand to provide emphasis, but the kind undertone in his voice doesn’t make Steve bristle as he usually would. Instead he smiles, thanks Karl, and gets to work. Moving boxes from the warehouse to the trucks waiting outside is monotonous enough that he gets lost in the motions and doesn’t look up until the whistle blows for lunch. 

He blinks back into reality and straightens up, wincing as muscles twinge in protest at not having been used in quite a while. He walks back into the main section of the docks and runs into Bucky and Gene. They are play-fighting with each other, throwing punches and trading insults, and Steve laughs out right at the sight of them. Bucky catches his eye and smiles and once again Steve is left breathless. “Hey, do you wanna grab lunch with us?” he asks. Steve nods, not quite knowing what else to say. He trails behind the other two as they walk outside and down the street. So far, his first day is going pretty well. 

The weeks pass and Steve settles into a routine with Gene and Bucky. He’s happy. Sure, the docks are noisy and crowded and there are probably a million other jobs that would suit him a lot better. But he doesn’t care. He likes the docks. He likes getting his hands dirty at work, he likes feeling the pull and strain of his muscles as he moves boxes back and forth for hours upon end. He likes eating lunch with Gene and Bucky, sandwiches nicked from each other’s lunchboxes as they straddle one of the beams towering over the pier. Even though his heart beats faster – both from the view and the company – Steve doesn’t think there’s a more beautiful place in the whole city. He’s itching to bring his pencils up here to sketch what he sees, but there never seems to be enough time. The whistle is always calling them back in. 

Sarah has also noticed the change in her boy over the past few weeks. His late nights have grown few and far between. He comes home on time with a kiss for her and a few extra dollars for dinner. She’s smiling a lot more now, fiddling with her rosary less. The silences that she used to try and fill with prayer are instead filled with Steve’s stories. He tells her about the docks and more specifically about Bucky and Gene. He may never bring up the true nature of their relationship, but Sarah knows. She knows far more than Steve gives her credit for. But she’s content to hold her tongue until Steve is ready to let her in. Until then, she enjoys his stories, enjoys the way his face becomes animated and he waves his hands around as he describes the latest antics the three of them got up to at work. 

But perhaps the most pleasant surprise is the Sunday Steve accompanies her to church. It’s the middle of the summer and even though the sun has barely risen, it’s already scorching out. Sarah gets up as usual and puts on her nicest dress, sighing over a tiny rip in the hem. As she bustles around the kitchen fixing her tea, Steve suddenly appears behind her. “Good morning, Ma.” 

She whirls around and puts a hand to her chest in fright. “Goodness, Stevie, you scared the bejesus out of me!” she scolds, swatting him on the back of the head. “What are you doing up?” 

Steve looks down at his shoes, ducking his head the way he does when he feels shy about something. “Thought I might go to church with you,” he mumbles. Sarah just stares at him for a moment. She promises herself she won’t cry even as her eyes fill up with tears. Steve soon grows even more uncomfortable with the silence than he was with his statement and he looks up. “Aw, Ma, don’t cry, come on,” he pleads. “It’s really not that big of a deal.” 

She folds him into her arms and presses a kiss to his head even as he tries to squirm out of her grasp. “It’s been too long,” she whispers. 

The two of them leave the apartment and head down the street as the bells are ringing in the basilica. Steve keeps tugging at the collar of his shirt, obviously uncomfortable at being dressed up. Sarah folds his arm in the crook of her elbow, “You look fine, dear,” she reassures. They enter the welcome coolness of the church and take seats in a pew far to the left. Steve is distracted, keeps looking up at the stained glass windows, studying the forms and figures of various angels and saints. He still can’t quite believe he’s doing this, knows the only reason he hasn’t chickened out yet is the look on his mother’s face this morning. But he feels like a fraud. He keeps wiping his sweaty palms on his knees and swallowing to wet his suddenly dry throat. Surely God is about to strike him down for daring to invade such a holy place when he is the way he is. 

Somehow he makes it through the sermon. Once he starts to actually relax – about half way through – he finds he is enjoying himself. The familiar sights and sounds of church soothe his soul and he sits back in the pew. His mind wanders during the communion that he still can’t quite bring himself to take and the windows capture his attention again. His fingers itch to sketch the saints. One in particular catches his eye as he and his mother are standing up to leave. It’s out of the way, tucked in a corner no one would notice if they weren’t looking. But as soon as he sees it, Steve’s breath catches in his throat. His ears burn as he immediately compares the saint depicted to Bucky Barnes. It’s the hair and the way it falls into the saint’s eyes and how Steve just knows Bucky would impatiently push it back only to have it fall down in the way again. It’s the eyes and how they may seem dark and stormy but they can just as easily change to laughter and how Bucky loves to tell dirty jokes for Gene’s laughter and the shocked look on Steve’s face as they gather for lunch each day. It’s the arms and the way the saint seems to carry his strength there and how Bucky moves the crates each day like they weigh nothing. Steve catches his mother’s concerned glance as they finally make their way back onto the street and into the bright afternoon sun. But he smiles and shakes his head at her. This is nothing he wants her to be concerned about. He doesn’t want to spoil it for her when she’s had such a good morning taking him to church with her. So the rest of the day he spends with knots in his stomach and his head in the clouds while Sarah hums around the kitchen fixing dinner. 

More weeks pass at work. Steve keeps moving boxes, eating lunch with Gene and Bucky, and going to church with his Ma. Routine has never been one of his strong suits, but he can’t help but feel comfortable with where his life is right now. He no longer feels the need to escape to bars in the early hours of the morning to try and pick up strangers and hide out at smoky counters nursing cokes. 

One Friday afternoon in late September, Steve receives some good news. “Hey, blondie, come over here,” Karl bellows a few minutes before lunch. Steve grimaces at the nickname, but makes his way dutifully over to the main office. “Yes, sir?” he asks. 

Karl claps him on the shoulder and starts leading him over to the conveyor belt. Gene and Bucky are still working in tandem to move boxes, though they seem to be arguing about something. “What would you say to a change in position?” Karl asks, distracting Steve from his musings. “A change in position?” he questions, not exactly sure what his boss means. 

Karl nods, gesturing to the layout in front of them. “You’ve been a hard worker the entire time you’ve been here Rogers,” he says. “And I like to reward my hard workers.” Steve is still not quite sure where this is going, but there’s a hopeful twinge somewhere in his belly. Maybe he’ll get to work on the assembly line! “What would you say to starting on Monday hauling crates?” Karl continues. 

“Yes, sir,” Steve replies enthusiastically. Karl laughs and claps him on the shoulder. Fortunately, Steve has built up enough muscle in the past few months that he no longer staggers under the older man’s weight. “Atta boy,” Karl crows as he walks back to the office. “Take the rest of the afternoon off, and I expect you bright and early Monday as usual Rogers!” 

“Yes, sir,” Steve parrots again, fighting the urge to let out a whoop and run out of the building. Instead, he walks with an extra bounce in his step as the whistle blows for lunch to grab the few extra pencils and scraps of paper he keeps stashed in his locker. With the extra time off this afternoon he finally has the opportunity to sketch the view from the lunch spot. 

He expects Gene and Bucky to be up there as usual, so he is slightly taken aback when he finds only Bucky glowering across from him. He hoists himself up on the beam to take a more stable position for the conversation that is sure to follow. “Hey, Buck,” he says warily, ducking hid head so he won’t compare Bucky’s eyes to a storm cloud and make himself turn red for no discernable reason. Even though his asthma comes in handy as an excuse sometimes, he really doesn’t want to have to fake a coughing fit way up here. 

Bucky scowls but doesn’t answer. Steve has been around for enough of his spats with Gene to know to leave well enough alone. He’ll come around in his own time. Steve sighs and pulls out a pencil, wets the tip with his tongue, and begins sketching. He’s facing the sea, so there’s not much to draw. He focuses on the pier, getting the shading just right to show how the afternoon sun beats down on the workers. He becomes so engrossed in his drawing that he’s not aware of Bucky moving until he hears the scrape of cloth against metal that announces his presence. It takes every ounce of willpower Steve has – as well as the awareness that he’s more than a few stories off the ground – to not jump out of his skin when he feels Bucky’s breath on his shoulder. Instead, his heart hammers in his chest so loud he’s sure Bucky can hear it. “Gotta problem, Barnes?” he quips, proud of the way his voice doesn’t shake like his insides are. 

Bucky studies the scrap of paper Steve has clutched in his fist. “You’re good at that,” he says and if Steve didn’t know better he’d swear there was a modicum of wonder in Bucky’s voice. “Where did you learn how to do that?” Steve shrugs. “Around, I guess,” he says, not trying to be modest. It’s true. He’s always had a knack for art and it’s a habit that doesn’t cost a lot to keep up. “Well, you’re good,” Bucky says leaning back and Steve misses his warmth before schooling his thoughts back to where they should be. “Really good.” 

Steve shrugs. He’s never been comfortable talking about himself. “What’s up with you and Gene?” he asks, half to get the topic of conversation off himself and half because he’s generally curious. The two have been known to argue about a number of things – Gene’s drinking and loose ways, Bucky’s temper, what to buy for dinner, who was going to cover the rent – but this time seems different. For one thing, Gene has always shown up for lunch. For another, the two always keep their arguments on hold during work so as not to mess up the rhythm they have. 

Bucky sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. He looks tired. Steve heart does that funny pang it does when he feels sympathy for the other man. He ignores it. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the next words that leave Bucky’s mouth. 

“Gene has been drafted.” Bucky licks his lips after he says this and it’s the most emotion Steve has ever seen him display. He usually sticks to the strong and silent routine. Steve sucks in a breath, not quite sure what to say. “I’m sorry,” he finally settles with. He’s not sure if it’s the exact right sentiment, but it seems to work for now. Bucky nods. “It’s not like we weren’t expecting it. But Gene refuses to listen to reason. He’s going to get himself killed over there and he won’t try to fight it. Keeps talking about duty.” Bucky cuts himself off here, looking pained. It’s not as if the war hasn’t come up between the three of them over the course of their friendship. Bucky knows how Steve feels about bravery and service to one’s country. Bucky may not agree with everything Steve holds dear, but the two still respect each other. 

Steve nods as Bucky takes a deep breath. “He might not get sent over, you know,” he says to fill the silence. And even though he’s grasping at straws that aren’t even true, it’s worth it for the small sliver of hope that appears on Bucky’s face. “You’re right,” he nods. “He might just get sent to basic training for a while. Learn to play cards, box.” Bucky smiles. “He’d like that.” Steve chuckles. “Yeah, he would.” 

The two pass a few moments of comfortable silence together. Steve has almost settled back down into his drawing, sketching the outline of a sailboat way out in the bay, when Bucky’s voice startles him once again. “Come out with us tonight.” 

Steve looks up at him. “What?”

Bucky laughs. “You heard me Rogers. Come out with us tonight. We’re getting drunk, saying goodbye to Gene. The hotel will be hopping, everyone who’s everyone will be there. That means you too, punk.” 

Steve sucks in a breath at the nickname. He doesn’t know why, but it’s always made his stomach drop down to his shoes, despite the fact that Bucky’s been calling him that since they first started hanging out. “I don’t drink, Barnes, you know that.” He tries offering this as an excuse, even though he knows it’s a lame one. Sure enough, Bucky snorts a laugh and echoes his thoughts. “That’s a lame ass excuse and you know it,” he claims. “You can still come out with us.” 

 

“But my Ma –” 

“Oh cut it with the bullshit, Rogers. You’re coming out with us and that’s that.” Bucky swings himself down from the bar he’s sitting on and ends up directly below Steve. He squints up at him. “I’ll see you at the hotel at eight o’clock. Don’t be late.” He finishes climbing down the rest of the structure as the whistle blows, signaling the end of lunch break. “Fine, you jerk,” Steve calls after him, the insult half-hearted at best. Bucky offers a cocky wave over his shoulder as he disappears inside. 

Steve shows up at the bar under the hotel at eight o’clock that night, running his hand nervously through his hair. When he told his Ma why he’d be out late that night, she insisted he wear his nice church shirt. He feels like a monkey in a suit as he stands outside in the cool night air, trying to gather the courage to go in. He’s in the middle of taking deep breaths when the side door opens and a familiar head of dark brown curls pops out. It’s Bucky. And he’s already drunk. “Hey,” he calls out, stretching the word into at least eight syllables. “Steve, how good of ya ta make it.” 

Steve chuckles as he makes his way over to the door and inside. “Hey, Bucky, good to see you.” Bucky claps him on the shoulder as Steve moves passed him into the bar. Steve tries to ignore the not entirely unpleasant tingle that travels down his spine. 

“Steve!” Gene yelps as soon as he catches sight of him. He’s dolled up with lipstick, much like the night Steve first met him. He’s drunker than Bucky and obviously feeling nostalgic as he pulls Steve into a bone-crushing hug. “I’m sure gonna miss ya, pal.” “I’ll miss you too, Gene,” Steve gasps, his face squished against Gene’s broad chest. Luckily, Bucky comes over to save him before he suffocates. “Come on, Gene let him go, look there’s Johnny over there, why don’t you go say hi.” “John!” Gene bellows, somewhere in the vicinity of Steve’s ear. He winces as he’s released, rubbing the side of his head and attempting to fix his hair. 

Bucky chuckles and Steve scowls at him. “Jerk.” Bucky makes a kissy face in his direction and Steve turns away, face burning. “Can I get you a drink?” Bucky asks, the tone of his voice light and teasing. The shock on his face is evident even given his level of intoxication when Steve says “Sure.” But he’s too polite to question and so he turns away to the bar. Steve’s heart rate doubles in the time that he’s gone. When Bucky reappears with a glass of amber-colored liquid in his hands, Steve takes it with shaking hands and gulps down half of it in one go. For some reason this amuses Bucky and he collapses into a fit of giggles. Steve glares at him. 

 

Gene eventually makes his way back over to them. By this point, Steve has downed two more glasses and Bucky has only stopped giggling once to ask if Steve could draw him something, sometime. Steve agreed muzzily and then took up Bucky’s giggling routine. By the time Gene reappears, the two don’t have any idea what they are laughing about, only that it’s the funniest goddamn thing in the world. 

Gene slings an arm around each of them and starts leading them out of the bar. “Come on, boys, let’s get the heck out of here.” Bucky and Steve trip along under his arms, too intoxicated to be anything other than complacent. “Where’re we goin’, Gene?” Bucky slurs as the cold night air washes over their faces. “Back to our place, Buck. Need ta give ya a proper goodbye.” Bucky snickers at this and leans around Gene to give Steve bedroom eyes. “Then why are ya brining this blond here along with us?” Steve’s breath catches in his throat and he is uncomfortably sober all of a sudden. He worries that he’s not been subtle enough, that Bucky knows of the torch he’s been carrying for him since they met. 

Gene stops walking in the middle of the street and blinks down at Steve as if he just realized he was there. “Well,” he drawls. Steve straightens up out of Gene’s grasp and tries to stand his ground even though his instincts are screaming at him to run. “I figure we could share one more drink with him. He is one of us, after all.” Steve smiles, relaxes, and let’s himself be pulled back into the group. The three walk crookedly down the streets and alleys until they reach the apartment Gene and Bucky rent. Gene shushes Bucky on the stairs which only makes Bucky rattle the railings louder, his laughs echoing like barks in the still night air. 

They finally make it up to the apartment and Gene hands out the beers. They sit on the floor of the living room and talk. It’s strange but oddly cathartic. Steve stays quiet for most of the night, choosing to listen to the stories Gene and Bucky tell about themselves and their friends. He’s holding his stomach from laughter by the time they all decide to go to bed. Bucky throws a pillow at Steve’s face as he curls up on the couch. “Good night, punk,” he says softly as he pads down the hallway. Steve’s heart clenches in his chest. “Good night, jerk,” he whispers, turning over. 

Steve’s first thought when he wakes up in a bed that’s not his own is panic. He sits bolt upright and inhales sharply, nearly setting off his asthma. He coughs for a few minutes, but manages to get it under control. When he finally calms down enough to reach back in his mind for the memories of last night all he can find are hazy snatches of the bar under the hotel and Bucky and Gene’s booze soaked stories. He puts together that he must be in the apartment the two share. Sure enough, he hears footsteps in the hallway and Bucky’s head pokes around the corner. “Did you sleep alright?” he asks. Steve nods, not quite able to speak at that moment. As Bucky leaned around the wall, the open shirt he was wearing – presumably one of Gene’s if the lipsticks smudges on the collar are anything to go by – had fallen open to expose a broad expanse of chest. Steve coughs again to cover his speechlessness. Bucky looks concerned for a moment before Steve waves him off. He gets up from the couch and trails after Bucky into the kitchen. Gene is seated at the table nursing both a cup of coffee and a hangover. 

There’s a vase with a single red rose sitting by his elbow that wasn’t there last night. Steve hesitates in the doorway. Upon closer inspection, the red ringing Gene’s eyes doesn’t appear to be from alcohol. Not if the drying salt lines on his face have anything to do with it. Bucky’s shoulders are set in a way that betrays his anger. When he can handle the tension no longer, Steve speaks, acting far braver than he feels. “Good morning, Gene.” 

Gene nods and gives a sad smile in his direction. Once Steve gets a glimpse at his whole face, there’s no mistaking the fact that he’s been crying. “When do you leave?” Steve asks. Behind him, Bucky sighs, breath coming out in an angry huff. “Tomorrow morning, I ship out,” Gene replies. Steve nods. The tension in the kitchen is so thick it could be cut with a knife. He knows it’s time to leave. He mutters his goodbyes and his thank yous – his mother did raise him right after all – and then heads down the stairs and into the bustling streets of Saturday morning in Brooklyn. He’s self-conscious the entire time he’s heading home, sure that everyone must know he’s doing the walk of shame. But he draws no more stares than usual and soon he is back to his own apartment. Sarah is fixing breakfast when he enters, and while she clucks over his appearance, she makes no comment about his absence from his own bed last night. She just makes his eggs the way he likes them and doesn’t sigh when he spends the rest of the day curled up in bed. 

Monday comes too soon. Even though Steve is excited to finally be working on the assembly line, he still has to drag himself out of bed when he knows its Gene he’s replacing. He sighs over breakfast and only gives one word answers to his Ma’s questions. As he leaves, it’s raining which just about completes the perfect picture of this day. He takes his umbrella and makes his way down to the docks. When he arrives, Bucky’s temper matches the sky outside. He glowers at Steve and Steve tries not to take it personally. He figures Bucky would glower at everyone today. 

Karl smiles when he sees Steve, which is a nice change of pace. He beckons Steve over to the main office and gives him instructions for what he’ll be doing on the assembly line. “You’ll be working alongside Barnes. Is that alright?” Steve fights down a blush with everything he has and nods. “Yes, sir.” Karl claps him on the shoulder and sends him on his way. 

Steve takes his place alongside Bucky, but doesn’t try to break the silence. To his surprise, Bucky does. “You working over here now, Rogers?” His expression still reads murder, but at least his tone softens when he’s speaking to Steve. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Karl figured I’d finally put on enough muscle to be able to help out.” Bucky snorts at this and Steve glares. “Well you don’t have to be such a jerk about it, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, punk.” 

The day passes more quickly than Steve thought it would. Even though he doesn’t have the same rapport with Bucky that Gene did simply because he hasn’t known him for as long, moving crates alongside him feels right. They stumble a few times throughout the day, working out the new rhythm. Every time it happens, Steve’s face burns red, but Bucky merely grunts and compensates for the awkwardness. 

At the end of the day, Steve is sore in places he never expected. All he wants to do is go home and pass out in his own bed before he has to wake up and do this all over again tomorrow. Karl calls out a “good work” to him as he leaves and Steve smiles to himself, pleased with the day, despite the somber overtone of Gene’s departure and Bucky’s subsequent bad mood. He moves to gather his belongings from his locker and head home, when – speak of the devil – Bucky appears next to him. “Jesus, Buck, ya scared the living daylights out of me,” Steve grumbles. “Why haven’t you gone home yet?” 

Instead of offering an answer, Bucky grabs the back of Steve’s collar and yanks. Steve yelps as he is pulled along out the main doors. His stomach clenches anxiously for a moment – worried what people will think, as always – but he is relieved to find the docks mainly deserted, everyone tending to clear off quickly on Mondays. He lets himself be pulled along for a few more feet, before he digs his heels in, effectively making Bucky halt. “What in the hell, Barnes?” he snaps, straightening his shirt and glaring. “What do you want from me?” 

Bucky’s chest is heaving from something other than the task of dragging Steve over here. He crosses his arms and sighs, refusing to look Steve in the eyes as he says, “Could use some company tonight.” Steve’s heart drops to his stomach. This is about Gene, he knows it is. How could it be about anything else? Having someone leave like that, out of the blue almost, must be hard. He’s not close with Bucky, doesn’t know much about his relationship with Gene, but he can sympathize. He saw them the night they all went out, saw the small touches they shared when they thought no one was looking. Saw the way Bucky would place gentle kisses to Gene’s forehead, the way Gene would smile sloppily up at him with all the love in the world in his eyes. Saw the way Bucky kept a hand hovering over Gene’s hip ready to guide him away if the need arose, the way Gene leaned into that hand. Saw the way Bucky looked the morning after, shirt collar stained with lipstick and bite marks fading on his neck. It’s clear the two had – have – something special even to someone as naïve as Steve is about these things. 

“Well, you could’ve just asked,” he grumbles, finally catching Bucky’s eye. He gives a small smile and almost sighs in relief when Bucky returns it. “Let’s go get a drink,” he says as he turns away again. Steve follows him down the street to a bar – not the one under the hotel, he notes. He supposes Bucky can’t deal with the memories tonight and Steve doesn’t blame him. He wouldn’t want to either. 

Steve orders his usual coke and nurses it as Bucky downs two glasses of amber-colored liquid in quick succession. This is worrying to Steve momentarily, and he considers catching the eye of the bartender – to do what he doesn’t quite know – until he realizes Bucky is standing up to leave. “Buck?” he questions. Bucky does not answer. Steve gets up and follows him out onto the street. It’s gotten dark while they were in the bar, streetlights coming on as they pass them. Steve takes a deep breath, vapor curling out from his mouth in the cold night air. Bucky is far ahead of him, but he stops at the corner. Standing there, the light hitting him from behind and casting him in shadow, he looks so much like the saint from the church window that Steve’s breath catches in his throat and he has to pause on the street for a moment so as not to have an asthma attack. Bucky’s head is bowed, hands in his pockets as he kicks at a loose stone on the pavement. But the strength in his arms and shoulders is evident in the way he holds his tension there. The moment stretches out, absolute silence reigning on the street. Just when Steve thinks he has to be caught in a dream, Bucky lifts his head up and whistles that same whistle from all those weeks ago. Steve rouses himself from his trance and follows after Bucky. Even though it’s late and he’s tired, it feels like the right thing to do. 

They end up at Bucky’s apartment. Bucky lets them in and the way the place is quiet makes it feel far less like a home than the last time Steve was there. It’s almost as if Gene took the life and the love and the laughter with him when he left. 

Bucky flops down on the couch, an arm over his eyes. Steve perches awkwardly on the edge of a chair, unable to settle comfortably. He feels out of place here, not sure if he should offer comfort, not sure what he is exactly doing there in the first place. Bucky doesn’t talk. He sighs often and each time Steve thinks he’s going to say something, but he just adjusts his position on the couch and falls silent again. 

Even though he feels more than awkward, Steve can never find a good moment to break in and say he’s going to leave. He thinks of a million excuses he could use, each one running through his mind before falling flat when he finally thinks he’s plucked up enough courage to use it. So he stays. He says in the silent of the dark apartment as the night grows later around them. Just when Steve begins to think that his Ma is going to have an absolute fit when he gets home, he realizes that Bucky has fallen asleep. He listens for a few more minutes to be sure, but the even breaths and the way soft snores occasionally leave him lets Steve know his assumptions were right. And it breaks his heart a little bit. 

He lets himself out quietly, making as little noise as possible so that Bucky won’t wake. Making his way home, Steve lets his thoughts roam free. He worries about Bucky, how he won’t let anyone in, even if it’s just the first day Gene’s been gone. He worries about his drinking and how he drinks on weeknights when nearly everyone but the most hardcore of alcoholics stay home from the bars. But most of all, he worries about himself and the feelings he has for Bucky that just won’t seem to go away. He keeps pushing them to the back of his mind and they keep popping up like bad seeds. 

Sarah doesn’t say anything when he gets home late. She tucks him into bed instead of the other way around and places a kiss to his forehead as she leaves his room. “Don’t worry Stevie, it will turn out alright.” Steve wishes he could bring himself to believe her. 

Weeks pass and Steve and Bucky fall into a new routine. Steve walked into work the Tuesday after he stayed while Bucky fell asleep and excepted things to be awkward. Or for Bucky to at least talk about what had happened. But he mentioned nothing of it and transitioned smoothly into conversation about mundane topics. Steve followed his lead, even though it unsettled him. They worked side by side moving crates and their rhythm improved day by day though Steve secretly thought he would never be as good of a partner as Gene was. 

Steve also starts accompanying Bucky home each night. Though Bucky never asked after that first night and Steve just assumed, it’s been good for both of them. And sometimes Bucky talks. He’ll tell funny stories about Gene that have Steve nearly in tears. He’ll tell stories of when they first met, of nights out at the bar under the hotel, of the one time that Gene came home early and danced him around the living room at lunchtime. These stories show Steve that Bucky truly loves Gene. And that it’s killing him to have him be gone. 

On the days when Bucky refuses to say anything, Steve draws. He brings the paper and pencils from his locker along with him when he follows Bucky home at the end of the day. He sketches the couch, the layout of the apartment. When the day comes that he’s sketched everything he can see, he starts drawing from imagination. He draws dragons and unicorns, monkeys and lions, all manner of creatures. He draws people too, some they know from work and some that he’s imagined. Bucky will either ignore him and disappear into his own world, or he’ll come closer to Steve, crouch on the floor and watch him draw. One day, as Steve is sketching a particularly difficult section of the cathedral dome, Bucky speaks, startling Steve out of his drawing trance. “Would you draw something for me?” he keeps his voice low, knowing that Steve spaces out when he draws. Steve takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. “Yes,” he says, matching Bucky’s tone. “What would you like?” Bucky shrugs. He doesn’t say anything else, but his question echoes in Steve’s mind for the rest of the night, long after he walks home once Bucky has fallen asleep. He has no idea what to draw. 

For the foreseeable future, until the war ends or Gene is sent home, Steve does what he can, which is listening to the stories, watching over Bucky as he sleeps, and being a friend. Even though that’s the part that’s killing him.

And then one day in the beginning of December, when the sky is iron gray and snow is threatening, Bucky gets the news. He doesn’t show up to work that day. Karl fumes and grumbles and threatens to fire him. Steve does the best he can working alongside someone Karl pulled from the boys who are in charge of moving boxes. But he feels off the entire day. Even though he doesn’t find out until much later what happened, he knows. He just knows. It’s the only reason Bucky wouldn’t show up. He’s a dedicated worked and he needs the distraction right now, he’s admitted that to Steve on more than one occasion. 

When the whistle blows at the end of the day, Steve stands at his locker for a moment, lost. Every nerve in his body is screaming for him to go to Bucky. But he can’t tell if that’s the side of him that’s been trying to be a friend to Bucky for all these weeks, the part of him that’s grown closer to Bucky, the part of him that wants all the good things for Bucky in the most unselfish way he can. Or if it’s the other part of him, the part that he tries to keep secret, the part of him that wants to comfort Bucky with forehead kisses and warm hugs, the part of him that knows he loves Bucky in the truest sense of the word. So he stands, frozen, as he is torn between those two parts of himself. 

Eventually he leaves. If only because the docks are closing and he can’t stay there any longer. He wanders the streets for nearly an hour, losing track of time as he travels over cobblestones and past buildings, not really seeing any of it. His mind is clouded with thoughts of Bucky. Even though he still hasn’t heard the news from any reliable source, and he can only guess this is the reason Bucky was missing today instead of something innocuous like being sick – oh God he could only hope – he has to assume. 

Eventually the uncertainty of it all and the way his eyelashes keep getting damp as he’s walking causes him to gather up all his courage and head over to the apartment. He knocks softly but is only greeted with silence. He knocks again louder. “Bucky?” he calls, raising his voice. “Bucky, are you there?” Silence again. 

Even though it makes his heart beat faster, he tries the doorknob. It’s unlocked. He knocks again as he pushes it open. “Bucky, I’m coming in.” He enters the apartment and looks around. The couch is empty. He walks further inside, anxiety building with each step. When he finally enters the kitchen, he finds Bucky. He’s sitting at the table, a bottle a quarter full of whiskey at his elbow and an empty glass in front of him. His head is in his hands and he makes no move to look up when Steve enters. “Bucky?” he asks. No response. 

Steve pulls up a chair and sits down even though his heart is in his throat. He is silent for a moment, not sure what to say. He’s never been in this situation before, he doesn’t know how to act around people who’ve had a love one die. 

“So I guess you heard,” when he finally speaks, Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly with a slight slur. Even without the evidence of the glass and the bottle, it would be obvious that he’d been drinking. “Gene’s dead.” 

Steve gasps softly under his breath. He never expected Bucky to be coarse about this. Though he’s never been in this kind of situation and has no experience with how people deal with grief, he somehow expected Bucky to be softer. The Bucky that told him endless stories about Gene, who described the way Gene laughed for a good five minutes, was soft. But this Bucky, the Bucky who had to get the news through Gene’s sister – a petite woman of thirty-five who only begrudgingly told him after he swore Gene was only his friend from work – the Bucky who got drunk the day his boyfriend died, this Bucky is all hard edges and cold facts. His words trip out almost faster than Steve can catch them. He tells about Gene’s sister and calls her some rather unsavory words that make Steve’s face burn from secondhand embarrassment. He tells about skipping work and drinking. And then he falls silent. 

Steve takes a deep breath, trying to absorb everything Bucky has told him and everything he hasn’t said in words. He tries to absorb the way Bucky’s hands shake as he pours himself another drink – Steve had to bite his tongue not to protest at that one for fear of getting hit – the way he keeps pushing his hair back from his eyes, the way his red-rimmed eyes blink far too often, the way his voice cracks every time he says Gene’s name. 

Eventually he feels ready to speak. “I’m sorry, Bucky,” he says. And even though he knows this is the most trivial thing to say at a time like this, that it often seems fake and forced, he really does mean it. He is sorry for the way Bucky is feeling right now, he’s sorry that Gene will never get to come home and put a smile back on Bucky’s face. And the funny thing is – if there could be anything funny in this situation – is that he can tell Bucky knows he means it. He nods after Steve speaks, but he doesn’t say anything. Steve doesn’t expect him to. 

He stays far into the night. Long after Bucky finishes the bottle of whiskey, long after when he should’ve gone home. After a while, Bucky moves to the couch and Steve follows, perching on the same chair he’s been sitting on for all those weeks. He still doesn’t quite feel comfortable here, feels like he’s invading something private, something personal. But Bucky seems to relax a little in his presence. At least, he relaxes enough to fall asleep. Steve watches as the tension leaves his shoulders as he drops off, snores starting almost immediately due to the amount of alcohol he ingested. Steve stays longer than he probably needs to, lingering around the living room. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t quite bring himself to leave, it feels wrong. But he’s not Gene, he’s not the one who can offer that kind of comfort. 

As he leaves the apartment, turning off lights, he makes a stop in the kitchen to leave Bucky with a glass of water. He’ll have a wicked hangover when he wakes up and Steve knows he’ll need it. When he leaves the kitchen, the soft glow of the light over the sink the only illumination, he notices that a single petal has fallen off the rose Gene left behind. For some reason that strikes him as unbelievably sad and all of a sudden he can’t wait to leave. He sets the water glass down gently and then hightails it out of there, nearly letting the door bang shut behind him in his haste. His heart is beating so fast, he has to stop and bend over to keep from being dizzy. The cold night air freezes his lungs, but he can’t tell with how cold the rest of him is. Leaving that apartment felt like leaving a part of himself behind. He walks home dragging his feet, and doesn’t stop to talk to his Ma. “Stevie?” she calls after him. She follows him to his room and sits down at the edge of his bed. “What is it?”

“Gene’s dead,” Steve nearly chokes on the words as he forces them out. A tear rolls down his cheek and Sarah folds him into her arms. “Oh, love,” she says, her accent stronger since she’s upset. Neither of them say anything for the rest of the night, but she stays in the room until Steve falls asleep, just like he did for Bucky. Steve knows morning will come too quickly for all of them. 

And indeed it does. Sunlight falls through the crack in Steve’s curtains and he lets out a soft groan, throwing an arm over his face. He doesn’t want to go to work, knows he’ll be even more upset if he doesn’t and that Karl will be likely to fire him. As he walks down the streets, stomach churning with nervousness, he can’t help but wonder if Bucky will be there today. He figures he probably won’t be, what with the amount he drank last night and the fact that he’s probably still grieving about Gene. In whatever way he can grieve. Steve’s heart squeezes painfully, both with worry and with sympathy. He hurries the last few blocks to work, even though he starts panting alarmingly towards the end. He has to know, he has to see if Bucky’s there, if he’s okay. 

When he arrives, sweating and slightly out of breath, he sees no sign of Bucky. He starts breathing so fast he fears he might throw up and so he leans against one of the crane beams and tries to calm down. It’s harder than usual when thoughts of Bucky keep running through his mind. “Rogers!” someone shouts, startling him so bad he almost has another asthma attack. When he looks up, bewildered, he realizes its Karl. And he does not look pleased. 

He beckons Steve over with a meaty hand, eyebrows pulled down low over his eyes. “You and Barnes are friends, yes?” he grumbles. “Yes,” Steve says, a little hesitantly. Friends is a safe word, but he knows that Karl isn’t stupid. He knows what goes on around here, knows that some of his workers are likely queers. “D’you know where he is?” Karl’s voice is still gruff, betraying his annoyance at his truant worker, but Steve swears his expression softens just a tad. “No, sir, I don’t,” Steve answers truthfully. Yes, he saw Bucky last night at his apartment, but he has no idea where Bucky could be now. The thought almost sends him into palpitations again. “Hmm,” Karl grunts out. He turns away and Steve assumes the conversation is over. He takes his place by the crates, working with the same young man from yesterday. He thinks his name is Joey or Johnny, something that starts with a J. He can’t be bothered to remember. Bucky is coming back. Steve has to believe this or the work day will seem too long and he’ll go insane. 

As it is, the hours seem to drag between the first crate swinging over his head and the whistle blowing to signal the end of the day. As soon as he can, he bolts out of the docks and onto the street. The cool wind of December burns his cheeks, but it’s a welcome sting. Steve knows he should go home, knows he really has no business poking his nose into someone else’s grief, someone he only knows from work and a drunken night on the town. Steve knows all this, and yet he finds his feet carry him in the direction of Bucky’s apartment anyway. He catches himself almost thinking of it as Bucky and Gene’s place before he realizes his mistake. It makes his stomach churn. 

When he arrives, he knocks to receive no answer again. He pushes open the door anyway, his heart in his throat as all manner of horrible scenarios run through his head. “Bucky?” he calls. “In here,” comes the gruff answer, almost making Steve jump out of his skin. He walks into the kitchen to find Bucky in much the same position as the previous day, sans alcohol bottle and glass. The fallen petal from Gene’s rose still rests on the table next to the vase. Steve avoids looking at it. It makes his eyelashes grow damp in an uncomfortable way. 

“Hey, Buck,” he says as he pulls out a chair to sit at the table. “How’s it going?” He doesn’t expect a response and sure enough, he doesn’t get one. Bucky remains seated, head in his hands. The only noise he makes is a sigh that sounds rough, as if he spent the entirety of last night screaming. “Missed you at work today,” Steve continues. He doesn’t know why he’s speaking, only that he can’t stand the silence, the way it seems to be a third presence in the room, taunting him, pleading with him to spill his secrets, to do something to break the tension. 

So he talks. He tells Bucky about the new boy working alongside him, how he can’t remember his name for the life of him. He tells about Sarah and how she bakes when she’s sad so the apartment is now filled with all the cakes should could make on the flour ration they can afford. He tells about how it’s nearly cold enough to snow and hopefully they’ll have a white Christmas, not like last year’s gray slush. He tells about the time he built a snowman in the park with his Ma and they used a potato for a nose instead of a carrot and the other kids in the neighborhood laughed at him for being Irish. He tells about the time that he and Gene and Bucky first ate lunch up on the steel beams, high over the city and how he will always remember that, how Gene laughed at Bucky’s dirty jokes and how they were his first real friends in Brooklyn. 

Bucky looks up the first time he mentions Gene’s name. It’s grown late by that point and Steve’s throat feels scratchy from overuse. He doesn’t think he’s talked this much to anyone not related to him in his entire life. Even though sensing Bucky’s eyes on him makes him nervous, he continues with the story anyway. Bucky has to know that there are good things to remember about Gene, that his life shouldn’t be forgotten.   
Once he finishes the story, he pauses. He’s dying for a glass of water, but fears getting up – making any sudden movements at all – will break the spell. So he waits. And then Bucky breaks it for him. “Leave,” he voice comes out so low it’s almost a growl. Steve startles. “Huh?” he can’t find any other words at the moment, so he settles for being ineloquent. “You heard me.” Bucky stands, hands resting on the table with his palms face down. He looks beyond mad. “I don’t want to talk about Gene,” his voice nearly breaks on the name and Steve has to respect him for the way he gathers his control. “Please leave.” His voice is softer this time. He walks out of the room without waiting to see if Steve will do as he’s told. Steve can hear him banging around in the back room, every once in a while a swear coming through. He sits at the kitchen table for a few minutes, still too stunned to leave. But once he hears Bucky’s footsteps getting closer, he stumbles out of his chair and out the door. He lets it slam behind him this time. 

Steve doesn’t see Bucky for nearly a month after that. Sure, Bucky returns to work the morning after kicking Steve out. Karl grumbles and fumes and nearly fires Bucky, but he does take him back. Steve can’t tell if he’s relieved or not. Especially since Bucky doesn’t talk to him any more than he has to for them to be able to move crates. He stops joining Steve high above the city for lunch. And even though Steve freezes his ass off for the rest of the week, hoping Bucky will join him, he eventually has to give it up for warmer quarters. 

He hasn’t been back to the apartment in all that time, either, even though his path home has grown in length so that he walks the street next to the alley way every day. He can’t quite bring himself to knock on the door again. He’s certain he would face rejection, but any words Bucky would say to him would hurt more than the punch in the face he would be sure to receive. So he worries from a distance, heart clenching painfully at times when he catches a glimpse of Bucky’s red-rimmed eyes or smells the tell-tale scent of bourbon on his breath at eight in the morning. Sarah notices his preoccupation when he stops eating as much. She tries to coax him to a full meal as much as she can, fixing all his favorites, but he can never swallow down more than two bites before it turns to ash in his mouth and he asks to be excused. 

It’s a few days after Christmas when he’s suddenly struck by inspiration. He had been lying on the rug in front of the hearth, absorbing the warmth there that hardly ever made it back to his room, when a conversation he had weeks ago with Bucky suddenly popped into his mind. Draw me something, Bucky had asked. And Steve had agreed. But he still hadn’t drawn anything, hadn’t had any ideas. It was always hard for him to draw for other people, to share his artwork like that. He counted it as a very private part of himself and testimony to that was the fact that Sarah had only seen maybe two of his drawings and she was his mother. Sure, she had seen him drawing, so had Bucky and Gene. But the process was different than the finished product. The finished product, the finality of that, was something Steve wasn’t all too comfortable with sharing. 

But he owed Bucky this, owed him this more than anything. And all of a sudden he knew just what to draw. He went back to his room to fetch paper and pencils, pulling down a sheet of cardstock from the highest shelf, the stuff he only used for drawings he counted as special, drawings he knew would mean something even if he never showed them off. 

Steve returned to the living room and curled up to draw, humming a jazz song as he did so without even seeming to realize it. With each movement of his pencil, he felt lighter, as if a weight was lifting off his shoulders. He works feverishly into the night and throughout the next week, ensuring every detail is perfect. Draw me something, Bucky had said. Well, this was definitely something. 

The morning of New Year’s dawns bright and cold. No snow had fallen for Christmas, no snow at all had fallen at all yet. Steve wakes early, not having slept well. The bags under his eyes weigh his face down so that he looks sickly and more than once during the holidays, Karl had asked if he needed a few days off. He politely declined each time, and only once did he catch Bucky’s quizzical stare. But he gave him the cold shoulder. If Bucky wasn’t going to talk to him, wasn’t going to let him help, well two could play at the silent game. Even if it did make Steve miserable. 

Sarah is already in the kitchen when he pads down the hall in his socks, hair unkempt. She’s humming as she stirs pancake batter, the griddle already sizzling with heat. “Happy New Year, Stevie,” she calls over her shoulder, not breaking stride between the fridge and the stove where she drops extra butter in a pan that already holds bacon. “Happy New Year, Ma,” he says through a yawn. He sits at the table lost in thought until Sarah sets a plate down in front of him. “Eat,” she commands, though her tone is soft. “You’re not going anywhere until you do.” The “yes ma’am” Steve chirps is automatic and Sarah swats him with a dishtowel, chuckling. She sits down with a plate as well and the two dig in. 

To his surprise, Steve’s appetite has returned. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s the hope of a new year, whatever it is, he’s grateful. Sarah smiles at him over the food and Steve knows she’s happy to see him eat. He hates worrying her, but he’s been so preoccupied with Bucky that he’s found it hard to focus on anything going on at home. “You’re going to see him today, aren’t you?” she asks as she stands up to clear their dishes. 

Steve stops, startled. The idea hadn’t even crossed his mind until his Ma mentioned it, but now that she did, he realizes that must’ve been what he was planning all along. Must be why he had the idea for the drawing in his head in the first place, today being as good a day as any to deliver it. Must be why he was able to eat breakfast, why his heart didn’t feel so heavy. “Yeah,” he finally says, “I am.” 

After helping Sarah with the dishes, Steve grabs his coat and heads out the door, slipping the piece of paper into his pocket to protect it from the elements. The day is blustery and cold, but the wind doesn’t cripple his lungs like it usually does. He feels free as he starts across town towards Bucky’s apartment, thinking about the past five weeks as he does so. Bucky had continued to give him the cold shoulder at work, even though their rhythm hauling crates continued to improve. Steve tried occasionally to draw him into conversation but each time all he received in return was a grunt or a glare, sometimes both. So he satisfied himself with a few longing glances that he always felt guilty for afterwards. He couldn’t quite drop his inclination to view Bucky as “Gene’s man” even as time stretched on after his death. When he would catch himself admiring the line of Bucky’s shoulders as he reached above his head for the next crate hanging on the chain, his face would burn red and he immediately berated himself in his head. But even though he swore he would never do it again, his eyes would always wander back over to Bucky and the way he flicked his hair out of his eyes in such an impatient manner, the way he made lifting heavy boxes seem effortless, the way he would occasionally smile at a joke one of the other dock workers made. Those moments – rare as they were – always made Steve’s breath catch in his throat. It was like staring into the sun, seeing that smile. 

He arrives faster than he thought he would and his stomach feels like it’s trying to digest itself as he stands on the steps. He raises his hand to knock, but then thinks better of it. If he announces himself, there’s always the chance that Bucky will tell him to leave again. Steve doesn’t think he could stand that. Instead, he pushes open the nearly always unlocked door, calling out “Bucky?” as he does so. 

The apartment is silent. No one answers his call, though this is nothing new. He walks to the kitchen, figuring this is the most likely place to find Bucky. No such luck, though the vase is still on the table, every petal but one fallen to the ground. It still makes Steve’s heart clench to see it there, abandoned. He quickly turns to go into the living room before he loses his nerve. Bucky isn’t there either. Steve is staring to panic as he heads down the short hallway to the bedroom. He’s never been in this part of the apartment before and he feels even more like he’s trespassing than he usually does. The overwhelming feeling of home, of Bucky pervades all his senses. 

The door to the bedroom is pulled nearly all the way shut. Even though he didn’t knock on the front door, Steve knocks this time. Knocks softly, as if not to wake a sleeping child. 

“Come in, Rogers,” Bucky calls, his voice nearly a sigh. 

Steve pokes his head around the door, a sheepish expression on his face. “How did you know it was me?” Bucky beckons him further inside. He is sitting on the bed, looking more at peace than Steve has seen him in the past month and a half, his hair has been cut, he’s shaved, and his shirt and pants are clean and free of any spilled alcohol. 

“Kinda expected you today,” he remarks as he pats a space on the bed beside him. Steve doesn’t take it. Not yet. He’s still wary. “You seem like the kind of sap to make New Year’s Resolutions. Figured me – or this friendship – might be one of them.” 

Steve lets out a sigh. “Didn’t know I was so easy to read,” he says as he finally takes the proffered spot on the bed, though he still remains perched on the edge, his heart beating faster at being in such an intimate space with Bucky. “Thought I was rather mysterious.” 

Bucky chuckles and it sounds so good to Steve that he almost forget where he is for a minute and tilts his head towards the sound. Bucky cuts off unexpectedly and when Steve opens his eyes – only then realizing he closed them – he is greeted with a quizzical look. 

And even though he has a brief thought of Gene, a brief thought that this isn’t really what he came here to do – though if he’s being honest with himself, maybe it is – a brief thought that he could get a hell of a beating for this, a brief thought that he’s absolutely lost him mind, he leans over and kisses Bucky. 

Bucky’s lips are warm against his, but not unyielding. Sure, there is a brief moment of surprise and a muffled yelp as Bucky realizes what he is doing. But as soon as he adjusts to the situation, he is kissing Steve back as if his life depends on it. Steve never wants to stop, wants to keep his lips on Bucky’s, pouring life and love and everything he wants so desperately to give Bucky into him. But Steve has asthma. So eventually he does have to break away and gasp in lungfuls of air. To his credit, Bucky doesn’t try to talk while Steve catches his breath. 

Steve can’t quite make his blush go away so he’s still red in the face when he looks up at Bucky through his lashes. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. There comes that quizzical look again. “What for?” Bucky asks. “Kissing you,” Steve murmurs, his bravery deserting him and forcing him to look down again. Bucky places two fingers under his chin and tilts his head up. “Nothing to be sorry for, Rogers,” he says, and it must be true because he’s smiling that smile that makes Steve feel like summer’s come early. “I didn’t mind one bit.” 

“But Gene…” Steve starts to protest, but Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t protest at the name like he used to, though his smile turns sad. “I’ve had my time to grieve,” he says. “I’ve said my goodbyes. I’ve made my peace with the guy. I don’t think he would want me to keep on being miserable. He would’ve wanted me to be happy. However I can be.” 

Steve isn’t sure what to say. Today isn’t going how he expected at all. Before he can think of another excuse or make a hasty retreat, Bucky kisses him. And it’s so soft and sweet that it makes Steve’s heart ache in an entirely new way, a good way. 

When they break apart again, Steve reaches into the pocket of the coat he’s still wearing, taking a deep breath as he pulls out the paper. He keeps it face down as he looks at Bucky. “I finally drew you something,” he says. Bucky’s face lights up like a child on Christmas. “I really hope you like it and you don’t punch me,” Steve mutters as he hands over the paper, still hesitant, still afraid of sharing the most intimate parts of him. “Why would I punch you?” Bucky’s voice holds honest confusion. He takes the paper from Steve and turns it over. 

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat and he exhales in a long whistle. When he turned the paper over, he was greeted by Gene’s face. Steve had drawn him how he remembered him best, all laughter and warmth. His head is titled back, eyes squinched shut, probably laughing at one of Bucky’s jokes that wasn’t that funny but tickled his fancy anyway. Steve tried to pour all the love he knows Bucky felt – feels – for Gene into that drawing. But now that’s he finally handed it over, he feels like he trespassed on sacred ground. Bucky isn’t saying anything, his eyes just keep flicking back and forth over the drawing, taking in all of the details. 

After a few minutes, Steve can stand the silence no longer. “Buck?” he questions. Bucky looks up. “Is it alright?” Steve asks, hating himself for his unsureness. “Yeah,” Bucky’s voice comes out hoarse. “It’s more than alright. God, Steve, I – thank you,” he says. “You’re welcome,” Steve murmurs in reply. Sometime later, Bucky puts the drawing on the bedside table, resting it against the lamp almost reverently. He kisses Steve again as if to say thanks. Steve blushes bright red. 

He stays the rest of the afternoon with Bucky, ensconced in blankets on his bed. They talk and they kiss and they laugh. And it’s good, really good. And even though Gene’s name still casts a shadow over Bucky’s heart and probably always will, Steve knows he has a place there too. 

In the kitchen, the final petal falls from the rose to come to a rest on the floor.


End file.
